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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949688">Or You Could Ask Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina'>Sparcina</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gotham at Night [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bounty Hunter Jim Gordon, Canon divergence - Gotham (TV) Season 3, Caring!Oswald, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Oblivious Oswald Cobblepot, Pining, Sharing a Bed, leather jacket, very mild smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:46:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald keeps finding Jim asleep on a bar stool in his establishment. He cares for the other man as best he could, which means keeping his hands to himself and a blanket under the bar counter, in between Zsasz's third backup shotgun and his best bottle of blue Curaçao.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gotham at Night [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Gotham-X-Change-2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Or You Could Ask Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Librarity/gifts">Librarity</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dear Librarity, here's a gift for you. Happy holidays!</p><p>Disclaimer: the image is a picture manip. Neither the universe of Gotham nor its characters belong to me.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Don’t you know what a bed is, James?”</p><p>Oswald sighed as he finished drying a martini glass. Jim Gordon, former police officer turned bounty hunter, had evidently passed out from fatigue again. One would have thought that after being kicked out from the force, the man would have started sleeping again, but here he was still, more than three months after he’d started wearing that leather vest like a piece of uniform, asleep at <em>Oswald’s</em>—his public nemesis’s very own establishment.</p><p>“What am I do to with you?”</p><p>“I have a couple of suggestions, boss,” Zsasz called from the other end of the bar.</p><p>Oswald shot a murderous glance to the extraordinarily competent but incredibly mouthy hitman. “That won’t be necessary.”</p><p>“Shame,” the assassin commented, but Oswald had already tuned him out.</p><p>He limped around the bar and came to stand next to an unsuspecting Jim. What <em>was </em>the man thinking, falling asleep, being so <em>vulnerable</em>, in what amounted to enemy territory? As much as it warmed him to have Jim’s unconscious trust him this way, he couldn’t help but worry at the <em>conscious</em> Jim Gordon, who would no doubt leave the bar with a few chosen words as soon as he roused. Maybe back Oswald against a wall for the thousandth time since they’d met. To be fair, though, the manhandling hadn’t happened in a while.</p><p>Oswald wished he didn’t miss the other man's touch so much. That, and Jim interrupting his meetings or storming into his office with a list of demands. Doing favors for a cop wasn't good business practices in the underworld, but having James's visits spaced out wasn't all that good for his mental health either.</p><p><em>He’s here now though, isn’t he? </em>taunted a voice at the back of his mind. <em>He may not trust you when he’s awake, but he fell asleep at your bar. That ought to mean something. </em></p><p>On his bench, Zsasz reached for another gun to clean. The man took care of his weapons, and with good reason: their good working order meant increased chances of survival in life or death situations. Oswald looked down at James, hands itching to brush a strand of blond hair behind the other man’s ear. All the lines of tension that made him look so strict—so <em>hot</em>—had faded now, the blue of his eyes hid behind eyelids ending in delicate dark eyelashes.</p><p>With a curse at his own foolishness, Oswald tucked his hands in his pocket and went in search of a blanket.</p><p>*</p><p>The next time Oswald found Jim passed out cold, it was after a thirty-plus shift dealing—in a permanent fashion—with a traitor and one too many stressful transactions. Zsasz was bouncing on his feet as he retreated to his favorite corner of <em>Oswald’s</em>, but the owner of the place was dead on his feet and planned to face plant into his own bed and sleep that awful day off, wrinkled clothes and bloodstains be damned.</p><p>That was, of course, before he found Jim, asleep again at his bar, a half-empty glass of the very best scotch he owned an inch from his curled right hand.</p><p>Oswald’s huff of exasperation was cut short as Jim mumbled in his sleep.</p><p>“James?” he inquired, but the other man just sagged further on his stool, dangerously close to toppling over.</p><p>As Oswald hobbled towards the bounty hunter, he became aware of something else: James was <em>sans </em>leather jacket, or rather, the jacket had fallen to the ground, and the man apparently liked to put on nothing else beneath except for a white, sleeveless undershirt that did nothing to hide his tapered waist and muscled chest.</p><p>Oswald gulped. He was too tired to deal with his one-sided attraction to Jim Gordon. Crouching to retrieve the jacket from under the bar, he realized that he had a hole in his pants two inches below the knee, and that the skin was bloody and grazed. What pathetic idiot should he add to Zsasz’s hitlist, now? He brushed the wound with his thumb and bit back a hiss. It hurt, but at least the bullet had only grazed his shin.</p><p>He rose with Jim’s jacket in his hand, and a knot in his guts. Too worn-up to fight that relatively innocent whim, he lifted the jacket to his face and buried his nose in the worn fabric.</p><p>
  <em>James.</em>
</p><p>It smelled strongly of cheap cologne and <em>faux </em>leather, with hints of blood and more disgusting fluids. Oswald nosed at the collar, seeking out that scent that was uniquely James, a musky, male perfume that he wished to bottle up for lonely nights. When he found it, he heard a muffled moan, and realized it was him, and that he had his face in Jim’s jacket and Jim himself may well wake up this very moment. The faint sound of Zsasz humming one of those annoying Christmas carols just made him squirm all the more.</p><p>He retrieved the blanket from under the bar, carefully folded in between Zsasz's third backup shotgun and his best bottle of blue Curaçao, and draped it on Jim’s shoulders. He couldn’t help but notice the goosebumps on the other man’s bare arms, and for a moment he just stood there, both hands knuckle-white on the fluffy blanket, wishing quite desperately that it was his own hands on those enticing arms, warming them up. That he could lean down and kiss a stubbled cheek. That James would follow him, sleepy and content and trusting in all his conscious glory, to the second floor. That they could fall in bed together and stay there for an eternity or two.</p><p>When he climbed the stairs to his quarters, he was alone with an aching heart and a full bottle of Curaçao.</p><p>*</p><p>“Again?”</p><p>“Three times’s the charm, boss.”</p><p>Oswald swirled towards Zsasz in time to see the man give him finger guns and wriggle his eyebrows.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, Victor, stop talking before I decide you’re better <em>off </em>the payroll.”</p><p>“I’ve always loved your ideas of threats, boss. Bye!”</p><p>The assassin left the bar before Oswald could decide if his headache stemmed from Zsazs’s teasing, whom he paid way too handsomely to endure such attitude, or from the blond man asleep at his bar <em>again</em>.</p><p>“What do you want from me, James?”</p><p>His voice was croaked, the words laced with the feelings overflowing from his heart, but no one could hear him, least of all the man asleep on his stool. Retreating behind the bar to get the blanket, Oswald wished he knew why Jim kept choosing his establishment to pass out instead of his own apartment. Logic dictated that Jim would sleep much better in his own bed, but then the man lived in subpar conditions, and maybe there was an infestation at his place. Or the hot water may have run out again. What if another one of Jim’s many enemies had broken into his apartment?</p><p>No, Oswald would know: if there had been a break-in, if the thank of hot water had to be changed, if cockroaches had invaded the apartment, if Jim had finally hung some curtains in the windows at last.  </p><p>(So far, Jim hadn’t.)</p><p><em>There’s a bed upstairs</em>, the voice crooned—temptation.</p><p>Oswald’s body ached for that very bed, but James was here, again, not demanding to talk to him—Oswald would have heard from Butch or some other member of the staff watching over the bar otherwise—just sleeping like a baby at <em>his </em>bar and leaving before Oswald could ask why.</p><p>Enough was enough.</p><p>Despite the urge to drape the blanket on Jim’s shoulders and bask in his scent once more, Oswald settled on the stool behind the bar and poured himself a healthy dose of Curaçao, the blanket askew on his own shoulders. He was always cold when he was tired, and besides, Jim was wearing his jacket today.</p><p>And he sported a brand-new bruise at the corner of his lips.</p><p>Oswald bit his own until the familiar blaze of anger and desire simmered down to ashes of yearning. Just as he was debating falling asleep here too, if only so that he could prevent Jim from leaving before asking <em>why</em>, Jim’s lips parted on the softest of moans. A grunt followed. Jim shifted on the stool, and not in the way someone relaxed further.</p><p>Oswald could feel this own face growing hot. He should leave. There was no one else here, and Jim seemed to have the… <em>pleasant</em> kind of dream. The other man wouldn’t want a witness, and would probably be embarrassed as all hell if he woke up with Oswald hovering close like some kind of fascinated schoolgirl. Oswald knew he was better than this. He was going to leave right now and go spend some quality time in his own bed like a grown man, because he wasn’t so tired anymore and if reality couldn’t measure up to his fantasies, he could at least appreciate them in the sanctity of his own quarters, where he wasn’t bothering Jim.</p><p>Jim whom he desperately wanted to kiss.</p><p>Jim whom he wanted to hear gasp and curse as Oswald took him in his hand, took him in his <em>mouth</em>, gave him so much pleasure that for once, the bounty hunger passed out from something else than exhaustion.</p><p>Before Oswald could bolt up the stairs, bad leg be damned, Jim spoke.</p><p>“<em>Oswald</em>.”</p><p>Oswald froze on the spot, his heart hammering so hard he could barely breathe.</p><p>And that was before Jim opened his eyes. Blue eyes, bright and alert, their hue so much prettier than the Curaçao currently swirling to waste among shards of glass at his feet.</p><p>But Oswald wasn’t interested in the alcohol soiling his shoes. His thoughts were muddled, his throat dry, every clever quip fading from the tip of his tongue. Jim’s gaze darted from the blanket on Oswald’s shoulders to the empty room.</p><p>“I’ll probably sleep better in a bed,” he remarked, carding a hand through his hair, messing it up some more.</p><p>Oswald wanted to ask him <em>why </em>he wasn’t in his bed, then. But he choked on the works, as he often did when Jim looked at him like that: like Oswald was a mystery, and Jim would like nothing more but to solve it.</p><p>For a while, they just looked at each other, neither of them breaking the silence. Oswald would have given away half his fortune to know what Jim was thinking.</p><p>To know why Jim wasn’t leaving already.</p><p>“Have I been that much of an asshole lately? I thought I'd apologize, but perhaps I should do it again.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>Jim chuckled, the sound tired and self-deprecating. “I thought I was being obvious.”</p><p>If Oswald had been confused before, it was nothing compared to now. “Obvious about what?” The gears in his brain ground to an abrupt halt. Jim <em>had </em>apologized, hadn't he? For being... ungrateful. And yes, a demanding asshole. He clutched his hands together, thoughts barrelling into each other. He felt slightly faint under Jim's scrutiny. There was an amused yet vulnerable gleam in those blue eyes…</p><p>The very same expression Oswald spied in the mirror every morning.</p><p><em>No</em>, he thought. He was being delusional. Jim couldn't... “What,” he began, voice hoarse and hopeful, because where Jim was concerned, Oswald would always be an idiot fool. "James..."</p><p>“Oswald.”</p><p>The silence that followed felt heavy with things unsaid. Oswald darted out his tongue and licked his lips, nervous and aroused in equal measure.</p><p>Jim’s eyes dropped to his mouth, following the gesture.</p><p>Oswald tugged at his collar. Had Zsasz turned on the heater again?  “Did you want…" He gulped. "Would you like…” He trailed off, fear blooming in his chest, dousing the hope. What if he was <em>wrong</em>? What if he was imagining the yearning in Jim’s pretty blue eyes, what if he was about to get—</p><p>“For a clever criminal, you sure can be oblivious to the most obvious signs.”</p><p>Jim leaned over the counter and reached out lightning-fast, taking hold of Oswald’s carefully knotted tie and tugging. With a gasp, Oswald braced himself against the hard marble of the counter. Their faces were so close that he could kiss James if he dared, taste the mouth he’d dreamt about for years, nuzzle that enticing line of alabaster skin that smelled of sweat and cheap Cologne, mouth at the pulse he could <em>see </em>jumping beneath the tender skin...</p><p>“I…”</p><p>Jim chuckled, eyes shining with fond—fond!—amusement. “Com ’ere, you idiot.”</p><p>The protest on Oswald’s tongue died on his lips. Mainly because Jim was busy kissing him, and when Oswald’s brain caught up with the rest of his body, he was too busy kissing back, too. He wasn’t the best kisser in town, he knew it, but Jim kept pulling harder at his tie, grunting and moaning as Oswald licked inside his mouth like an intoxicated man seeking out his fix, so why should he care about performance? The counter was digging into his crotch, and it might hurt, if he wasn’t so grateful for the friction.</p><p>“J-James, are you really…”</p><p>“… inviting myself into your bed? Absolutely.”</p><p>Oswald might have been dead on his feet, but being kissed and caressed by Jim Gordon in his own bed, being called <em>sweetheart </em>and <em>baby </em>as that hot mouth swallowed him whole, injected him with enough vitality to last several lifetimes.</p><p>And later, when he drifted out to sleep with a snoring Jim wrapped around him, he felt at peace for the first time in a very long time.</p>
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